Of Passings and Premonitions
by Itarille
Summary: At Beor's deathbed, Finrod, angry with mortality, mourns his friend's passing and learns something of his own future.


Of Passing and Premonitions  
  
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As always, thanks to Nerdanel and Tinuviel-Luthien for beta work and encouragement. Feedback would be very greatly appreciated.  
  
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Finrod Felagund had first seen death, in all its terrible glory, at Alqualondë. It was very unlike what he had imagined death to be. The vague stories of war he had heard, of the courageous Valar battling Morgoth and his armies, had never prepared him for anything like that day. But then, the Valar were fighting their enemy, not those they called their friends. The stories did not tell how one almost fainted when up ahead they glimpsed the first body of many they would see that day. They did not speak of the noise that a sword makes as it cuts through flesh. They failed to mention the terrible sound of women crying on the shore, watching their husbands and sons die. And they most certainly did not reveal the horrible sight of blank eyes, of eyes that no longer have a fëa behind them.  
  
That was the first time Finrod had seen death. As they sailed away on their stolen boats, as the sun set on an already red ocean, a terribly beautiful crimson sea, he had cried unabashedly, his tears falling into the marred ocean. It was then that he had vowed never to kill again. But of course he had. It was kill or be killed, when the orcs attacked, and instinct took over. He had even grown accustomed to the expression that elf and orc alike wore as he died. It was an expression of fear and terror, as they finally realized that they would die, not their neighbor, but themselves. Even the most brave and valiant wore it before the end.  
  
But the man laying on the bed in front of him, this man who could die now at any moment, wore an expression of satisfaction, of contentment even. And he could not, for all his wisdom, understand it.  
  
Had he been given only so many years, he did not think he could have accepted it, to grow weak and die when there was so much left to see, and do. But, he mused, what would it have mattered, his refusal, when in the end all men died, weakened and broken? What had men done, when time began, to anger Eru to such an extent that he would punish them for eternity? He did not know, and he never would. There was a reason, he supposed, a greater purpose; but he did not know what it was. And so all he could do was watch his friend die slowly, day by day.  
  
The healers had told him that Bëor could die at any time, that he might not even wake up again, but he did not trust their words. Bëor was the first man many of them had met, let alone examined. They had seen nothing of this sort of death, of this slow aging. He had been polite though; many of them cared for Bëor and wished to see him once more as well. Bëor, with his unquenchable thirst for knowledge, had made many friends in the city. Glancing behind him, he could see some of the same healers still at the back of the room, trading anxious looks, but he was not concerned. He knew Bëor well, and the man would not depart from the land of the living until he was finished here.  
  
Despite his confidence in the matter, he found himself relieved when the man shifted a bit on the bed. His friend was strong, he would not go without a fight; he reminded himself. Looking back at the bed, he found a pair of startlingly bright grey eyes gazing at him, a slight smile on Bëor's lips. Reassured, he smiled back.  
  
"Look at all these grave expressions. I am not even dead yet," Bëor chuckled, his voice weak, but the tone strong. He was a studious man, but not quiet. Those who knew him were acquainted with his dry wit, usually stirring fits of laughter in even the most serious of the elves, but Finrod was not so quick to laugh this time.  
  
"I do not understand how you can joke at the present," Finrod countered, his tone mild, but his eyes were troubled. The smile faded, and Bëor's face grew solemn.  
  
"Why do you fear death so?" Bëor asked inquisitively, his eyes questioning. The fact that even now, gravely ill, his friend did not end his pursuit of knowledge brought a hint of a smile to Finrod's face as he considered the question.  
  
"It is unnatural. Why create a life that will be cut off in the middle, before men have enough time to accomplish anything?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "Why always fall to death before you are finished here?"  
  
"I would say it is your kind that is unnatural. Plants, birds and beasts: they all grow, and then they die," he replied, the smile gone now, as he patiently worded his answer. He gestured with a frail arm as he spoke. "You are the only ones who remain here, mourning always for those who do not. I would rather live a full life, a happy one, then linger here throughout the years."  
  
"But how can you not fear the end?" Finrod protested, his face somber. "For that is what it is, death."  
  
"Nay, it is merely a new beginning. My likeness will carry on in my descendants, and my remains will become earth again, creating new life," Bëor replied softly. "It comforts me."  
  
"How can you be so prepared?" Finrod asked, marveling at his friend's calmness. How can you surrender without a fight?"  
  
"I am not surrendering, mellon. Death is not the enemy," Bëor responded, leaning back on his bed, the effort of speaking having exhausted him.  
  
"You are weary, Bëor. You should rest now," Finrod replied, his voice urgent and anxious. Though many who were acquainted with him joked that not even a million orcs could make the elf king lose his composure, they would have changed their minds had they been there then.  
  
"Remember my words, Nòm. You will know death too, before the end. Do not be so afraid when it comes," Bëor said, using the name he had first given Finrod. His voice had become quieter now, and weaker. Finrod stood motionless for a moment, pondering the man's words. But he did not doubt them, for the foresight of death was never wrong. Bëor was dying, that he could not deny any longer. He sank down to the floor, defeated, and clutched his friend's hand.  
  
"You have taught me more than I could ever teach you," he murmured to the man, but the hand he was holding was cold. He looked at Bëor's face in panic. It was peaceful, with a slight smile even, but there was no denying it. Bëor was gone from the land of the living.  
  
He cried for the man, tears falling down his face and onto Bëor's hand, just as they had fallen into the sea so many years ago. He held on to it still, hoping to bring warmth back to it, but his hands alone could not bring back life to the dead man. He could not escape death, it seemed, not its shadow and not his own death.  
  
He would accept it, then, and take the counsels of Bëor to heart. The man was wise indeed, alone among men rivaling the Firstborn. He was not so arrogant as to not be able to admit that perhaps he was wrong, perhaps death was not a punishment for the second children of Eru. He could not pretend to understand it, but then who among any of the Elves or Men understands the reasons of Eru? And who was he to say that he understand the doom of man better than Bëor, who was, after all, a man?  
  
He closed his eyes, exhaustion suddenly overcoming him. The stench of death, even now rising off the body, seemed to envelope him, closing in and choking him. He felt almost as if he were drowning in it, in an ocean of death, being tugged underneath the current. He could scarcely breathe. Instead of fighting it, he opened his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. The room was as it had been, no sea, no current. Still, he sensed that it had been there only a moment before. This he knew, he would not fight death, but there would be no peacefulness, no contentment when it came, but blood and pain instead. He forced himself to raise his eyes to Bëor's body, not even flinching. So it would be, then. 


End file.
